


Book One: Black and Gold

by SageTheWriter



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: (sort of), AU, Adrinette | Adrien Agreste/Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Book 1 of 4, Character Arcs, DJWifi, Developing Friendships, F/M, Gen, I told you stuff is different, It's a literal alternate universe, LadyNoir - Freeform, Light in tone, Like a heavy-duty AU, Lots of stuff is different so be ready for that, Marichat, Multi-Work Project, Not feel-good but you won't drown in angst, Out of Character Moments, Romance, character centric, just a little bit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:27:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24973819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SageTheWriter/pseuds/SageTheWriter
Summary: What if there was an alternate universe where for every character, one major thing was different? This is an admittedly rather strange ML fic where Adrien and Marinette switch parents and learn to love each other the hard way.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Alya Césaire/Nino Lahiffe
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	1. Prologue

The battle was over, and evil had won.  
  
Ladybug lay on the floor, resting her cheek against the cold concrete ground, and listened to Papillon’s maniacal laughter. Soon, Papillon would send out an army of butterflies and make a police force out of Champions, but for now, the villain was content to look out at the Parisian skyline and bask in stolen glory.  
  
Ladybug forced her head up off the floor and looked at Papillon through swollen eyes. Her entire body ached, and she was sure that she had broken something. Everything in her screamed to lie still, to keep herself from getting injured further. But she had to get up. She couldn’t let evil win.  
  
Slowly, Ladybug pushed herself up. Every movement felt as though she was being pummeled by a hammer, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from shrieking in pain. Papillon’s back was turned; absorbed in revelry, the villain hadn’t yet noticed that Ladybug was not unconscious. She would use that to her advantage.  
  
Slowly, carefully, Ladybug stood up. For a moment, she was afraid that her legs would give out beneath her, but she managed to stay balanced. She tried to straighten, only to cry out in pain; she must have broken her pelvis bone, or at least fractured it. The cry cost her: Papillon whipped around and saw her standing.  
  
Papillon tsked. “Little bugs shouldn’t get in the way of human affairs, _coccinelle_. Be a good girl and lie back down.”  
  
Ladybug gritted her teeth. The pain of merely standing nearly made her pass out.  
  
“I won’t…” she began, but was too winded to finish. Even breathing was starting to hurt now. She wondered if she had punctured a lung.  
  
“I won’t…let you…win,” she gasped out, fixing him with a burning stare even as she swayed on her feet. “I _won’t…_ ”  
  
Papillon regarded her as one would regard a squashed slug. Then—infuriatingly—the son of a bitch chuckled.  
  
“You act as though you have any power over me!” Papillon shouted. “Like you have some way of defeating me in battle! But you don’t! You don’t even have your partner to help you!”  
  
Papillon gestured to where Chat lay on the floor, unmoving. Ladybug refused to look at Chat’s body. He was unconscious— _please, please be only unconscious_ —but even without him by her side, Ladybug knew she could save them both.  
  
She had to.  
  
“This is the end, Ladybug,” shouted Papillon. “You’ve defied me so many times, but I won! I _won_ this time! And once you both are dead and buried, I’ll have your Miraculouses as well!”  
  
No. That couldn’t happen. Master Fu had guarded these for a lifetime…she couldn’t let them fall into the wrong hands.  
  
Ladybug started to speak, to tell that treacherous moth that she would never let them touch her Miraculous. Instead, she was wracked with a coughing spell. She clasped her hand over her mouth, too weak to say anything; when she pulled her hand back, she found it full of blood.  
  
Papillon’s eyes glinted. “I’m afraid this is the end, _coccinelle_.”  
  
Ladybug’s breath was laborious. She knew that her next action would surely destroy her. But what use was a body in a world without mercy? What use was a heart in a world without love?  
  
Her hand fell behind her back, and she gripped her yo-yo tightly.  
  
“No,” she whispered, “it’s not.”  
  
And she threw the yo-yo straight at Papillon’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. A prologue? Really, Sage? But stick with me, _chères_ and _chéries_. This is going to be important.
> 
> Anyway, welcome to the show. I know this prologue seems pretty dark, but I can assure you that the rest of it isn't going to be nearly as angsty or dramatic. And don't be too put off by the title―I may have big plans for his baby, but I'm going to be taking it one step at a time, and it should be enjoyable as a standalone just as much as a multiwork. Now, on to Chapter 1!


	2. Trois Vies

It was 8:00 in the morning, and Paris was alive. All over the city, people were getting into their cars, eating quick breakfasts, and rushing to get to their destinations. Some took the metro, while others walked. Bells rang as people entered shops, shopkeepers whistled as they swept their entrances clean, students laughed as they headed on to school. Paris was alive and well, living to the very fullest.

In the Dupain household, Adrian Dupain was hurriedly collecting his things as his mother Sabine yelled at him from the stairs below.

“Come on, Adrian!” she shouted, sounding angry. “We have to go!”

“Coming!” Adrian yelled back, hastily shoving his textbooks into his backpack. In went his notebooks, his ruler, his calculator, his phone…

“Adrian, it’s _the first day of school!_ Why didn’t you have your things ready ahead of time?”

Adrian looked wildly around the room, searching for anything else he might need. Seeing nothing, he grabbed his backpack and hoisted it up over his shoulder, cursing when the weight of it nearly tipped him over. Then he went over to the dresser and stuffed everything else he would need into his pocket: his house key, his earbuds, his lucky guitar pick, and of course the clip-on earring that he’d gotten from Nino last week. After one last cursory glance in the mirror, he nodded in satisfaction. Yup, he was good to go.

“ADRIAN!”

“ _Coming!_ ” Adrian clutched the strap of his backpack as he ran out of his bedroom door and hurtled down the stairs. Unfortunately, he picked up so much momentum that when he reached the bottom, he found he couldn’t stop. With a yelp, he tripped over his own feet and tumbled down the rest of the stairs; he ended up slamming into the wall, making the whole structure shake. As expected, it hurt like the dickens.

“Adrian!” Sabine rushed over to him, and he grinned sheepishly at her as she gave him a quick once-over. The grin disappeared when, deeming him fine, she whacked him upside the head.“Adrian Dupain, stop wasting time and get in the car!” she snapped. “You are not going to be late on your first day, do you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, Mom,” grumbled Adrian, rubbing the spot where she had hit him. Sheesh, shouldn’t moms be kind and understanding? Smacking your kid after they’d tripped down the stairs was like child abuse, wasn’t it?

“Don’t look at me like that,” said Sabine curtly, helping him up. “You know perfectly well that I’m only like this because you run into walls and trees and parked cars on a daily basis.”

Adrian remembered the one time that he’d actually run into a parked car, and he couldn’t hold back a laugh.

“Yeah, you got me there,” he admitted. “Just call me Accidenti Adrian!”

Sabine sighed exasperatedly.

“It’s 8:05,” she told him. “If we want to get you to class on time, we have to leave _now._ ”

“All right, all right, keep your pants on. Just let me say goodbye to Dad first.”

Sabine nodded, and Adrian ran into the kitchen. The scent of freshly baked bread hit him the moment he pushed open the swinging door, and he inhaled it with a happy sigh. Never, in a million billion years, would that scent not put him in a good mood.

“Bye, Dad,” said Adrian, waving at his father. Tom, who was taking out a steaming tray of macarons, paused for a moment to wave back.

“Bye, son,” he said. “Don't let your day go a-rye!"

Adrian groaned, rolling his eyes. “Da-ad! That was terrible!”

“Which means it was good!” he said, laughing. “But I mean it, _chère_. Try to keep your nose clean, okay?”

“Okay, Dad.” Without warning, Adrian ran to his dad and threw his arms around him, giving him a hug. He only came up to his father’s chest, but his dad still felt warm and solid, almost like a huggable oven. Adrian buried his face into Tom’s chest and inhaled his scent: baking flour, his own personal musk, and, for some inexplicable reason, breath mints.

Tom, clearly surprised, leaned down to return the hug. It was quick and brief, but it still felt great.

“See ya, Dad,” said Adrian once they’d broken apart. “Let’s go, Mom!”

“Oh, one more thing,” he said right before leaving the kitchen. “Don’t count your macarons before they’ve been eaten!”

Confused, Tom and Sabine turned to look at the tray of macarons. Two were missing. Looking back at Adrian, they saw him holding up the two macarons he’d stolen from the tray—the real reason for his seemingly random hug.

“Adrian Dupain! Give those back right now!” shouted his mother angrily. But Adrian was already gone, the only trace of him the sound of his laughter.

At Agreste Manor, it was a very different atmosphere. The notorious fashion designer Émilie Agreste had been hidden in her room for three days, which was not uncommon. Her daughter, Marina “Mari” Agreste, was already gone, sitting in the back of a limousine with her best friend, Nathanial Sancœur, and his mother, Natalie. They were on their way to school.

“Are you nervous?” Natalie asked Mari, looking over her tablet with eyes full of concern.

“An Agreste is never nervous,” said Mari coolly, staring resolutely out the window. Even though the back of her car seat felt soft and comfortable, she still tried to sat as straight as she could. “I'll meet the challenge head-on and conquer it at any cost.”

“Geez, Mari,” said Nathaniel, who was lounging next to her; he was more than happy to take advantage of the comfortable seats. “You make school sound like a battle arena.”  
“It _is_ a battle arena,” retorted Mari, throwing him an annoyed look. “At Collège Thomas De L’épée, the goal is to get good grades, please the popular crowd, and avoid anything that'll make you the center of gossip. Every day is a battle of popularity and smarts, and those who don’t make it don’t come out alive. I can’t see how this school will be any different.”

“Okay, not a bad description of high school,” Nath admitted. “But come on, Mari, it’s not all a giant bloodbath! People at Françoise Dupont are a lot less rigid than the snobs at De L’épée. I guarantee that at least once this trimester, you’ll have fun.”

Mari snorted. “Want to bet on that?”

Nath’s grin turned sly. “Name your price.”

“Enough, you two,” said Natalie sharply. “I won’t allow betting in this family. It’s a dirty habit, and I expect you both to be sensible enough to not be taken by it.”

“What’s the fun in being ‘sensible’?” said Nath, slightly put out by his mother’s scolding. “I’d rather be _in_ sensible if it means I can have fun.”

“Smashing your skull against the front seat probably won’t be much fun,” said Mari, frowning disapprovingly at him. Nath wasn’t wearing his seatbelt. He almost never wore his seatbelt, and she hated it. What if the car crashed? What if the soft, fuzzy covering wasn’t enough to protect him from serious harm? She pictured Nath flying through the windshield and felt like throwing up. On the outside, however, her face was impassive. Controlled.

She was good at hiding her feelings. She’d had years of practice.

Nath rolled his eyes. “Is this the seatbelt thing again? I told you, Monsieur, I don’t need it!”

“You really ought to wear it, Nathaniel,” said his mother, but she made no move to enforce her statement. Mari internally rolled her eyes. Natalie was quick and efficient at just about everything, but when it came to her son, she was much too lenient. Privately, Mari suspected that she was trying to make up for the fact that Nath had no father figure in his life. Since Natalie was so lax with him, Mari saw it as her duty to make sure he was safe, whether he liked it or not.

Mari unbuckled, and in one swift motion, she grasped Nath’s seatbelt and pulled it over his chest, buckling him in with a satisfying _click_. She moved so quickly that when Nath reacted, she had already buckled herself back in.

“Mari!” he cried, appalled. “You can’t do that to me! I’m not a child!”

“Then stop acting like one,” snapped Mari. “You’re not going to die a ghastly death on my watch, tomato.”

Nath huffed, but he must have sensed how agitated she was, because he decided to let the issue slide.

Mari turned to look out the window. Stupid Nathaniel. He never seemed to understand that everything she did for him was to keep him safe. Did he really believe she only did things to annoy him? Honestly. When she arrived at the school, she was going to start a list: Things I Hate About Nathaniel. Number one would be “Never listens.”

As her anger cooled, however, she began to feel more pensive. Looking at the pretty red foliage of the leaves, her thoughts drifted to her new school. As usual, she had lied to Nathalie—she really was nervous about going. Who wouldn’t be? It was a new school, with new people and new places and new things. She knew she could handle it—an Agreste could always handle it—but nevertheless, it was a different environment from what she knew; of course she would be feeling anxious.

As she absentmindedly tapped her fingers on the door handle, she saw a man with a little girl, kicking up leaves and laughing. Just a quick image, a small flash of movement, and then the car turned a corner and the man and his daughter were gone.

A flicker of a smile crossed Mari’s lips. Inevitably, she thought about her own father. What would he do in her situation?

 _Probably jump right in and begin making connections_ , she thought with a rueful smile. What little she knew about him, one definite thing was that he was very, very good with people.

She swallowed. _I hope I can live up to your name, Papa._

Even as she thought this, her new school came into view. Collège Françoise Dupont. An ordinary school for ordinary people. It was simple but big; somehow, Mari hadn’t been expecting that. She fought the urge to rest her chin in her hand, reminding herself that it wasn’t ladylike. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap and stared out at the great dome of the school, wondering idly if she'd enjoy attending.

Deep inside Agreste Manor, a woman stared at the cold purple stone she held in her hand. It hummed, _radiated_ with power, almost consumed by a deep violet glow. She stared at it in shock, unwilling to see…unable to understand…

Why had this been in her husband’s office? This was clearly a dangerous object. It was pulsing with energy; she couldn’t believe she hadn’t sensed it before.

 _It must be a bomb_ , said Émi Sensée, _or a sensor or an—an energy disruptor—whatever it is, it’s dangerous, and you should put it away._

 _Or maybe it’s magic_ , said Émi Rêveur thoughtfully. _The kind that allows you to do great things. You remember the old heroes? You know, the Deux de Paris—_

 _Shut your mouth!_ said Émi Agressif sharply. _You know we don’t speak of them anymore._

 _Sorry_ , said Émi Rêveur timidly.

The woman’s hand began to faintly throb from the energy surrounding it. She absentmindedly thought to put it down, but something stopped her. True, she didn’t want it touching any of Gabriel’s things, but it was also that it felt…good in her hand. It felt right, somehow, to be holding it. Like it belonged to her. Like it _needed_ her.

 _Those aren’t good thoughts to have_ , Émi Sensée chided herself. _Have movies taught you nothing? Thinking that something needs you usually means that it’s_ using _you._

 _Maybe I’m okay with being used_ , snapped Âne Émi, finally rearing her ugly head. _Maybe I’m sick of sitting here, grieving, day after day after day. Maybe being a puppet is better than being nothing at all._

The woman squeezed her eyes shut, wishing they would all shut up. Without opening her eyes, she turned the stone over in her hand, feeling its unsettling warmth on her cold skin. It wasn’t a stone, not really; in fact, it seemed to be a brooch. But the violet stone in the middle of it seemed to burn right through its encasing. She hated that burn. Hated it for no other reason than it scared her. But it was also because she wanted it. She wanted it, but she had sworn that she would never want anything ever again.

 _This stone-brooch-thing is clearly dangerous!_ argued Émi Sensée. _If you have any sense, you’ll put it down and walk away! It can be dealt with calmly and quickly once you have a clearer head!_

 _My head_ is _clear!_ said Émi Agressif. _And this thing, whatever it is, is too powerful_ not _to examine! Stop being cautious and study it properly, because if you don’t, you’ll only end up regretting it!_

 _Hey, hey now,_ Émi Calme cut in soothingly. _There’s no need to fight, little one. Just take a deep breath, and stay calm. Everything will be all right._

The woman felt a headache pressing against the front of her brain. Inside her head, the voices continued to argue. Back and forth, like cats hissing over a piece of meat. All the voices in her head, they just wouldn’t stop…

She was so tired of the voices…

 _He was able to calm the voices,_ whispered Petite Émi, _wasn’t he, Émilie?_

Yes. Yes, he was.

The woman took a deep breath. In one quick motion, she thrust the stone into her jacket’s breast pocket. She didn’t know what it was, or what it did, or what it would eventually do to her. But it made her feel good to have it. It made her feel like she was finally in control.

The woman stalked out of her husband’s office, the stone burning a hole in her pocket, burning itself down to her heart.

Yes, it was 8:00 in the morning, and Paris was alive. Alive with love and laughter, alive with hate and fear, alive with the living dreams of all its inhabitants. At the time, a part of it was still dormant, still sleeping under a guardian’s watchful gaze. But eventually, that part of it would awaken once more.

Soon, Paris would be alive with _magic._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, let's talk names. Adrian's name is _not_ misspelled. I needed a way to keep Canon!Adrien and AU!Adrian distinguishable, so I decided that Tom in this universe is interested in American culture and convinced Sabine to use the American spelling of Adrien. It's the same reason I named this version of Marinette "Marina" instead. Other than them, everyone essentially has the same names (I toyed around with alternate names for some minor characters, but that would've made it too confusing, so the most I did was make some teensy alterations that left the names still recognizable).  
> Finally, a note on the _Émis_. It's not exactly a secret that the woman is Émilie―I just thought the narration worked better the way it's worded. So, you ever have voices in your head who are _you_ but not so much _you_ as just certain thought processes who are kind of characterized via dialogue? I bet some of the more neurotic among you have. Well, that's what happening here. The idea is that Émilie has the different sides of herself who argue with each other to figure out stuff, only it's gotten out of hand and they're eating her alive. This isn't actually all the _Émis_ ―the seventh one will appear in a later chapter. Xe isn't a part of Émilie, and xe isn't very nice...


	3. Le Garçon Doré

“Absolutely not,” said Sabine.

“Aw, have a heart, Mom!” said Adrian pleadingly, leaning forward in his seat. “It wouldn’t hurt the car, would it? I could see how fast I can go, and how fast the car can go, and what if I beat it? What if I could actually go _faster_ than the car?”

“You won’t,” said Sabine in exasperation, “because this car is going 70 miles per hour, and you, my friend, go exactly 14 miles per hour. And besides all that, you have _got_ to get to school!”

“Yeah, but see, if I _raced_ the car, then I would be going faster, and I’d still be able to get to school on time—”

“Adrian, I said no.” She checked her rear-view mirror. “Adrian Dupain! You buckle in right now!”

Adrian groaned and flopped back into his seat, sulkily buckling in only when his mother glared at him. His mom was such a killjoy! What was wrong with his idea? He could outpace this car in a heartbeat!

He could just see it now: Him running 25 MPH, with barely a stitch in his side, as the entire school looked on in wonder. Then, two minutes later, his mother’s small blue Civic Honda would come tearing around the corner, making a smooth doughnut and causing skid marks before coming to a halt, smoke pouring out of the engine. He did it! He was too fast even for a car! The crowds come cheering, picking him up and throwing him in the air, chanting his name! _Adri-AN! Adri-AN! Adri-AN!_

“Adrian? Are you listening to me?”  
Adrian snapped out of his daydream with a jolt. He glanced at his mother, trying not to look guilty.

“Yeah, I’m listening,” he said.

“Good. Repeat back to me what I just said.”

Adrian gave her a nervous grin. “Uh…that I’m a wonderful son and you’re going to get me a motorcycle for my birthday?”

“Nice try. I was going over the rules for the day.”

“Mom, you already told me the rules last night! Twice! I don’t need to hear them again!”

“In that case, you tell me the rules,” said Sabine without missing a beat.

Adrian groaned. “Mom, seriously?”

“Yes, seriously,” his mom shot back. “I seem to have completely forgotten what the rules were. Tell me, my darling offspring, what were they again?”

Adrian was tempted to say the opposite of what the rules were, just to spite her, but he didn’t have a death wish. Instead, he crossed his legs and began ticking off on his fingers.  
“Rule #1: Don’t be mean to anyone. Rule #2: Don’t talk to strange people and say no to drugs. Rule #3: Don’t leave the building unless it’s an emergency, even if it’s for lunch, because apparently you’d rather see me pitifully starve, alone and friendless, than walk a mile to La Lotus Café.”

Sabine sighed. “Adrian, we’ve been over this. I just don’t feel comfortable with you leaving to buy lunch.” She turned right at a stop sign. “Even if it’s with your friends. _Especially_ with your friends. I want you to stay in the school building until school ends, all right?”

“ _Fine_ ,” said Adrian, sighing dramatically to let his mother know how inconvenient he found it. Like anything was going to happen to him on a short walk to the café! His mom was so overprotective sometimes.

They passed the Pont des Arts, still covered with warning signs from the last collapse in 2008. As Adrian watched it disappear through his window, a memory flashed in front of his eyes: A tall figure standing on the railing, looking down into the water below. He jumps. He falls…he falls… _he falls…_

He could feel his breath getting quicker, and he pinched himself as hard as he could, concentrating on the pain to bring him back to reality. The argument with his mom was forgotten. All he wanted was to not think of _that_.

When he finally dared to glance out the car window again, it was just in time to see his school pull into view. It looked the same as it always did—tan brick walls, blue cobblestone roof, and the huge wooden doors that were already wide open. He’d once suggested to Principal Damocles that they paint the doors a more interesting color, like red and white or blue with black stripes. For some reason, Damocles hadn’t seemed too interested in the concept.

“Bye, _mon chou!_ ” called his mother as Adrian slammed the car door. He turned and waved, smiling halfheartedly. Going by the bridge had scared the brattiness out of him. As irritated as he was with his mom’s rules, he didn’t want his mom’s last memory of him that morning to be of him with a bitter scowl.

Once his mother’s Honda Civic had driven away, still waving, Adrian checked his phone for the time and sucked in a breath. _Porca miseria!_ He only had a few minutes to get to class!

Adrian bounded up the stairs and through the doors, ran through the school. The courtyard was just as cold as outside, and even colder now that he was running. Well, whatever. He could handle the cold. He _thrived_ in the cold! There was nothing better than a chilly wind to blow past you as you ran.

Adrian, mid-run, checked his phone again. Three minutes! He’d have plenty of time to snag a seat, toss out his stuff, and joke around with Nino for a while before class started!  
Yes! He loved it when things just fell into place!

Grinning in satisfaction, Adrian looked up just as he reached the top of the stairs, and too late saw the girl standing there. He barely had time to register her presence before he slammed into her, knocking them backward and tripping himself in the process. Adrian yelped as they crashed onto the hallway floor, which, predictably, hurt. He ended up sprawled on the floor, his arm throbbing where it had landed on the concrete.

 _Ouch_ , he thought, sitting up. As spills went, that wasn’t the worst one he’d ever had, but it was still a painful one. He flexed his arm a few times, trying not to wince when it gave twinges of pain. Well, at least it wasn’t broken.

He looked over at the person he’d run into, and his heart stopped. Because the person he’d run into wasn’t just a person, it was a _girl_.

She was small, with black hair up in a bun and the greenest eyes he had ever seen. Seriously, they were like emeralds. She had a heart-shaped face, and her skin was really pale, almost like porcelain. She wore what Adrian imagined was what a schoolgirl’s uniform looked like: a grey vest over a white button-up blouse, a dark grey skirt, black leggings, and black Mary-Jane shoes.

She was pretty. Really pretty. She was probably the prettiest girl Adrian had ever seen.

And then she ruined it by speaking.

“Are you going to ogle me all day, monsieur?” she snapped, her voice clipped and cold. “Or are you simply thinking up ways to injure me again?”

Adrian flushed. Pretty _and_ pointed, apparently.

“Sorry!” he said hastily, scrambling to his feet. He turned to offer her his hand, but she was already standing up, brushing her skirt and pointedly ignoring him. A flash of annoyance went through him, but he shook it off. He’d just bowled her over. She deserved to be a little rude.

“Sorry,” he said again, just in case she hadn’t heard him. “I—uh, didn’t see you there. One minute you were around the corner, and then BOOM! Right in front of me!” He laughed nervously. “Um, are you okay?”

“Perfectly fine, no thanks to you,” said the girl coolly, inspecting herself. She looked up at him with those green, green eyes, and he felt himself go bright red.

 _Pull yourself together, Dupain!_ he told himself sternly. _This is your chance to make a good first impression!_

“The nurse!” he blurted out. The girl startled, and he flushed.

“I mean, maybe you should go to the nurse’s office,” said Adrian, with as much confidence as he could muster. “Just to be on the safe side, you know? Because injuries that don’t seem so bad can really hurt in the long run. I remember once, when I was twelve, I fell on my wrist wrong while playing with my friends. Cops and robbers—you ever play that game? It was really fun! Anyway, it didn’t hurt all that much, so I kept playing, but then when I tagged someone, it hurt like the dickens! So my mom took me to the doctor, and the doctor said that I…”

His voice trailed off. The girl was glaring at him.

“I didn’t ask for your life story, monsieur,” she said.

“No, it—I was just trying to be helpful!” spluttered Adrian, fully aware that he was making a fool of himself.

The girl sighed and crossed her arms, still glaring at him. She gave Adrian the strange impression of a pixie drill sergeant.

“Do I want to know why you were rushing up the stairs like that?” she said.

“Well, it’s almost time for class,” said Adrian. He then added, with a sheepish grin, “I’m sort of late, and I wanted to be on time this year.”

The girl raised an eyebrow. “As opposed to the years before?”

It sounded like an innocent question, but Adrian saw something shift in her expression: Instead of just being annoyed, now she looked haughty. Self-satisfied, even. It was as if what he’d just said had confirmed something for her, and that made Adrian angry. It was one thing to be rude—he could handle that—but he couldn’t _stand_ people who were stuck-up.

“For your information, I had very good reasons for being late these last few years!” he said hotly.

“Oh, really?” said the girl, arching an eyebrow. “Let me guess—your breakfast was a little late? Perhaps your bed was a touch too comfy and warm?”

The haughtiness in her eye had slipped into her voice. Adrian felt himself flush, which only made him angrier. What right did Snooty Patootie have to embarrass him?

“Listen, princess, I’m trying to be nice—”

“Are you? Then I’d hate to see you when you’re cruel. You must be quite a beast.”

Adrian wanted so badly to swear at her in rapid Italian, not to mention use some rude gestures he’d learned from his grandmother. But instead, he took a deep breath and tried to calm himself down. Losing his temper would only get him into trouble.

“Listen, we’re gonna be late for class,” he told her. “What do you say we forget the insults and just call it a day?”

“You’re right,” said the girl, elegantly adjusting her bun. “You’re not worth the effort.”

_What a little—_

Enraged, Adrian opened his mouth to fire back a witty retort, but couldn’t think of anything. Instead, he snapped his mouth shut and scowled at her, taking a step back in order to give himself time to think. Except he’d forgotten that he was standing on the elevated hallway. His back hit the railing, and his brain screamed, DANGER! Reacting instinctively, he whirled around and grabbed the railing with both hands.

The good news: He was still alive and safely on solid ground. The bad news: The motion sent his bag shooting over the railing, spilling its contents all over the floor below.

“ _Cavalo,_ ” he muttered, peering over the railing in dismay at the mess below him. Of all the rotten luck!

“Are you going to help me with all this, mademoiselle?” he asked over his shoulder.

“And why would I do that?” said the girl, clasping her hands behind her back.

“You’re the one who made me spill my bag!”

“I had no part whatsoever in your moment of clumsiness. You were the one who threw it over the side in the first place.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one who—”

“If you’ll excuse me,” said the girl coolly, “I must get back to class.”

Holding her head high, she turned and strode back into the classroom. Adrian watched her go, seething. How could she blatantly cause him to lose control of himself, then have the nerve to act like it was his fault? 

He checked his watch. There was no way he’d make it to class on time, not if he had to go down the stairs and shove everything back into his bag. Frustrated, he kicked the staircase banister, yelping in pain when his toe hit the hard metal pole. _Incazzato!_ So much for his fresh new start! And it was all that stupid girl’s fault, too!

Adrian inhaled, then exhaled. Okay. Okay. So this was a bad morning. That didn’t mean the rest of the day would suck. The longer he stood here and raged about it, the longer it would take him to get to class, and the tardier he would be. He’d have to get to class early some other time. And as for that girl, he hoped he never saw her again.  
Adrian turned and raced down the stairs, nearly tripping twice.

 _So it’s a bad morning,_ he thought. _That just means the day is bound to get better, right?_

He had no idea how right he was.


	4. La Fille Noire

“Your lucky pencil will never be seen again.”

Nath looked up as Mari slid into the seat beside him. As soon as she was sitting at the desk, she began tapping her index finger rhythmically on the desk’s hard, smooth wood. The sound helped her calm down, though not by much.

“So I take it to mean you didn’t find my pencil?” said Nath, pushing his bright red hair under his fedora.

“No,” said Mari testily, “I did not find your pencil. Perform the last rites and move on with your life.”

Nath stopped his tucking. “Uh-oh, you sound fussy. Did something happen?”

Sensing an outlet for her frustration, Mari began to tell him about the blundering boy she’d met in the hallway, but she was interrupted by the teacher’s voice.

“ _Bon matin_ , students,” said the teacher cheerfully. A chorus of _bon matin_ , madame answered her. “Welcome back to another year of collège. For those who are new, my name is Madame Bustier.”

Mari didn’t bother saying hello. She already knew Madame Bustier, having met her during a special private tour that Nathalie had arranged the week before. She was a fine teacher, but unfortunately she was inexperienced, not to mention a bit dense. Mari gave her one more year before she married a well-to-do man and quit the business entirely.

Madame Bustier went on to do roll call. She consulted a clipboard, clicking her pen as she did.

“Marina Agreste?”

“Present,” said Mari.

“Alya Bourgeus-Césaire?”

“Present!” called a voice from the front row. Mari peered over the head of a tall Creole boy and saw a familiar flush of auburn hair with bright red tips. Alya Bourgeus-Césaire, the Mayor’s daughter. Her being here was one of the selling points Nath had used to convince Nathalie that Mari ought to attend the school.

“Julika Couffaine?”

“Here!” called a brash voice.

“Adrian Dupain?”

A pause.

“Adrian Dupain?” said Madame Bustier again.

No answer.

Madame Bustier shook her head and made a note on her clipboard. Mari didn’t blame her—any student who wasn’t serious enough to turn up on time to the very first day of school was clearly a disappointment. She idly wondered who Adrian Dupain was, then decided he wasn’t worth worrying about.

As Madame Bustier continued down her list, clicking her pen with every name called, Mari took the opportunity to covertly watch the other students. Though they seemed like ordinary French kids, they were much different than the students at De L’épée. At De L’épée, everyone looked so similar that it could be hard to tell them apart; here at Dupont, each person seemed to have their own particular style. A black boy with a shaved head and an orange t-shirt sat next to a blonde girl with a high ponytail and pink lip gloss, while behind them a massive boy wore a ripped black t-shirt, black jeans, and a black baseball cap. Next to _him_ was a plump girl with colorful beads in her dreadlocks, a white jacket, and a ruffled red skirt.

Mari’s fingers twitched as she imagined putting pencil to paper and transforming the different aesthetics into original designs. She longed for her sketchbook; of course, today of all days, she had forgotten it at home.

Finally, Madame Bustier called the last name, and Mari regretfully turned back to the front of the class.

“Well, class, I’m happy to see that most of you are here,” said Madame Bustier. “Now, open your History textbooks and turn to page—”

The door banged open, jolting Mari so badly that she dropped her history book on the desk with a thud. To her displeasure, she saw the boy from the hall standing in the doorway, panting.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, flashing the teacher what he clearly thought was a charming grin. “I got caught up in something.”

Mari scowled, her eyes flashing. That stupid boy again! What was he doing in this class?

“Monsieur Dupain,” said Madame Bustier, looking at the boy with a disapproving eyebrow. ( _I should have known!_ thought Mari.) “Late again, I see. What excuse do you have this time?”

The boy—Dupain—grinned at her. It was a grin that said _I know this is going to be stupid, but I can’t possibly get in trouble from it_.

“I’m glad you asked,” he said, and he launched into a spiel about taking his dog on a morning walk and getting sidetracked. Mari wished he would just shut up and take his seat, but Madame Bustier listened patiently for about three long sentences before she cut him off.

“That’s enough, Monsieur Dupain. I’m going to have to put this on your _note de la scolaire_.”

Mari swallowed in spite of herself. She knew Dupain fully deserved a mark for being late and telling such a stupid story, but she couldn’t help feeling a flash of panic when she heard those words. If she ever got a mark on her own _note de la scolaire_ , she would wither and die.

As Dupain shifted from foot to foot, waiting for Madame Bustier to write a note for his folder, Mari took the opportunity to lean over to Nath.

“Who is that boy?” she murmured.

Nath looked up briefly, but then went back to his notebook. “Oh, that’s just Adrian. He’s the class’s resident showman.”

“And is he always late?”

Nath shrugged. “Sure. But everyone here is late once or twice.” He grinned at her. “This isn’t picture-perfect De L’épée, Monsieur. Around these parts, people screw up all the time.”

“I could guess that from watching you, Tomato” said Mari, smirking at him. Nath shot her a dirty look, but didn’t say anything.

Mari turned back to the front of the class and studied Dupain more closely. She hadn’t paid him much attention in the hall, and had only noted his messy, undoubtedly uncombed blond hair and an irritating grin. But now she took the time to check out his outfit as well. It was a simple ensemble: a white parka, a black t-shirt, blue jeans, white sneakers with neon-green laces that hurt her eyes even from a distance, and of course that gauche earring. Anyone could tell that he was following a trend, and in Mari’s eyes, that hurt his case just as much as his personality.

And _belles étoiles_ , did his personality hurt. She had been able to tell, with just one glance in the hallway, exactly what kind of person he was. A slacker. A goof-off. A clown. He was unkempt and disorganized, yet expected things to just fall into his lap. The sly grin he’d given Madame Bustier before launching into his spiel said it all—I know this is going to be stupid, but I can’t possibly get in trouble from it. That was his whole world view, wasn’t it? That there would be no consequences? That he’d just live his life doing whatever he wanted and nobody could really stop him? What a dimwit. People like him made her sick.

“All right, Monsieur Dupain,” said Madame Bustier, snapping the folder shut, “that will be all. Please take your seat.”

Dupain gave her one final grin and bounded up the steps. Mari thought he was going to see her, but he only had eyes for his seat—which, to her displeasure, was the one directly in front of her, right next to a Creole boy with buzzed hair and a shabby green jacket.

“Now, if you’ll turn to page five, we’ll begin with one of the longest wars in history, the Hundred Years’ War,” said Madame Bustier. “Beginning in 1337, the Hundred Years’ War—”

Ah, the lesson was starting. Mari bent over to begin taking notes, pleased to finally be focusing on a task. Though was a pity that they had to begin with the Hundred Years’ War, as she had just finished a 1,000 page hardback on the subject and already knew the basics. Maybe it was because she was only half concentrating on her notes, then, that she overheard Dupain’s conversation with the Creole boy.

“—can’t believe you even made it,” the Creole boy was saying, speaking under his breath to avoid being heard by Madame Bustier. “I was sure you’d miss class entirely this year.”

“Were you expecting it or just hoping for it?” said Dupain quietly, grinning. “Dude, you’re not gonna believe why I was late.”

The Creole boy smirked. “Let me guess—your dog took you hang gliding?”

“Very funny,” said Dupain. “But this is for real. There was this crazy girl in the hallway! She was like a—a pixie drill sergeant, stopping me in my path!”

Mari’s brow furrowed, though she was still only half-listening. A pixie drill sergeant? He couldn’t be talking about her, could he?

“Yeah, right,” said the Creole boy with a smirk, clearly unconvinced. “And what exactly did this fairy girl do to you?”

“I’m telling you, she was nuts! She tripped me up in the hallway, told me I was a lazy do-nothing, then threw my bag over the side and ran away!”

Mari clenched her teeth. Dupain had her attention now. And if he was talking about her—and it sounded like he was—then he was taking quite a few liberties with what actually happened. Calling him a lazy do-nothing? Please. Like she would be low enough to actually resort to name-calling.

She considered reaching her hand out to smack the back of his head, but then decided against it. Irritating as he was, Dupain and his friend were just two boys who had no clue what they were talking about, and making a scene was the last thing she wanted to do on the first day of school.

 _He isn’t worth my attention anyway_ , she thought, bending over her notebook.

“The war was made up of a series of conflicts between England and France, who were battling for France’s throne,” said Madame Bustier. She turned to the blackboard and began writing down names and dates. “Charles IV, the previous ruler of France—”

“So what are you doing after school?” said Dupain quietly.

Wouldn’t he _ever_ shut up?

“Dunno,” said the Creole boy, leaning back against his seat. “Probably just head home. We don’t have band practice until Saturday. But,” he added, and Mari heard a grin slip into his voice, “I might get caught up by the elusive demon girl in the hallway. Who knows? She might even tell me her name before she tosses my headphones over the rail! 

Dupain muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like _bitch_. 

_That does it!_ thought Mari, slamming her pencil down on the table. 

__

“Madame Bustier,” said Mari loudly, raising her hand as high as it would go. “The boy in front of me is talking, and I can’t concentrate." 

__

Dupain whipped around in surprise, and his eyes widened as he recognized her. But before he could say anything, Madame Bustier was upon him. 

__

“Monsieur Dupain?” she said. “Is what Madame Agreste says true?” 

__

The Creole boy quickly turned his head to face the wall. Dupain glanced at him briefly, but then turned back to Madame Bustier and gave her a guilty yet charming grin. 

__

_I know this is going to be stupid, but I can’t possibly get in trouble from it_. 

__

“It’s sort of true, Madame, but not really. She’s exaggerating—all I was doing was asking Nino for a pencil.” He turned and faced Mari with a smile that looked more like a smirk. “What is it they say about little pitchers and big ears?” 

__

Mari narrowed her eyes. _Two can play at that game, Dupain_. 

__

“Was that all you were doing?” said Mari innocently. “Silly me. I heard you talking about after-school plans and I was distracted. Something about graffiting the Eiffel Tower?” 

__

“Hey, she’s making that up!” Dupain glared at Mari, his easy grin vanishing. His eyes, she noticed, were a lovely shade of light blue. It was a pity they belonged to such a dunce. “We would never do something illegal like that! Right, Nino?” 

__

The Creole boy—Nino—gave a single hard nod, not looking at Dupain. It seemed that he wanted as little part in the action as possible. 

__

“I was asking for a pencil,” said Dupain. “Honest!” 

__

Madame Bustier sighed. “I’ll let this go for now, Monsieur Dupain, but I want you to meet me here before you head out to lunch.” 

__

The class _oooohed_. Mari fought to contain a smirk as she watched the grin slide off of Dupain’s face. The spoiled brat was finally getting what he deserved. Maybe now he would understand about consequences. 

__

As Madame Bustier returned to her desk, Dupain turned to glare at Mari. Mari glared right back. He shouldn’t try and pretend it was her fault that he got in trouble. After all, she wasn’t the one who was late, who was talking during class, who had straight-out called her a bitch. He could shine those lovely blue eyes all he wanted. They couldn’t save him from the consequences of the real world, and he ought to realize it. 

__

“The Hundred Years’ War,” Madame Bustier continued, her chalk squeaking as she wrote out more dates, “was notable for lasting more than a hundred years, clocking in at a hundred and sixteen by its end in 1453. During the war, there were many important battles, such as—” 

__

Mari began meticulously copying the names of famous battles as Madame Bustier rattled them off, determined to shake off Dupain and focus on her schoolwork. She was pleased that she already knew the majority of the battles listed. The tests for this unit were going to be child’s play. 

__

As she was writing _Battle of Agincourt—1415_ , a folded piece of paper landed on her notebook. Unfolding it, Mari recognized Nath’s scratchy handwriting. 

__

_You should’ve left it alone_ , Mari, it said. _That wasn’t any of your business_. 

__

Frowning, Mari turned the note over and scribbled a response. 

__

_Lecture me later, Tomato. I have to concentrate_. 

__

Without looking at him, she slipped the note back to him and continued to take notes. She could feel Nath’s disapproving gaze on her back, making her squirm internally, but she didn’t let it show; as badly as she knew Nath wanted her to fit in here, she wasn’t going to change her principles just to make him happy. She would have to explain later why Dupain wasn’t worth her guilt. 

__

_At least now the day can continue like normal_ , she thought with a sigh. 

__

She had no idea how wrong she was. 

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, computers suck. I had a bunch of technical difficulties while posting this, and then I had to redo the whole thing because I accidentally posted this chapter as a separate work rather than part of the bigger book (if you were confused by that, I apologize). Also, sorry for not posting sooner. I'll get the next chapter up a lot quicker, I promise!
> 
> So, you may be wondering about the _note de la scolaire_. To put it simply, it's a record that's kept strictly during the three years of _collège_ (which is the French version of middle school, not a university); rather than academic notes, which are handled by the student's overall file, the _note de la scolaire_ is a record of the student's behavior and attendance over the course of three years. In the final year of _collège_ , the _note scolaire_ is added to the total assessment of the Brevet (more on that next chapter). It's a pretty controversial system in France, as many teachers and parents think that objective things like attendance & behavior should affect a strictly academic exam.
> 
> Next chapter will be more character development than plot development, sorry. But the chapter after that will finally kick off the plot.


	5. Le Déjeuner

“Bye, Madame Bustier,” said Adrian, waving halfheartedly from the doorframe. He closed the door before he could hear her response.

For the first time all day, Adrian didn’t run to where he needed to go. Instead, he walked slowly out of the classroom and down the stairs, lost in his thoughts. He was still shaken by his meeting with Madame Bustier.

“Adrian,” Madame Bustier had said, “I think you’re an intelligent boy, even if you don’t realize it. And as I’m sure you know, you’re in your second-to-last year of collège. Next year, all the notes and mark-ups on your _note de la scolaire_ will be put forward toward your Brevet score. You have a lot of notes and mark-ups on your file already, Monsieur Dupain, and if you have another year like the last two, it will not bode well for you come Brevet time.”

She had paused for a few moments, gazing at him with a thoughtful finger on her cheek.

“I’m going to let this morning’s incident slide as a warning,” she’d said finally, “but all this troublemaking—repeated lateness, acting out, disobeying authority—it has to stop. You can’t keep treating this classroom like it’s a stage for your antics. If you don’t shape up, Monsieur Dupain, I’m afraid you’ll be shipped out.”

Adrian stared at his feet as they moved forward. The Brevet? His future? The morning’s _incident_? Where had all _that_ come from? The Brevet was still a year away, two if you counted this one, and anyway, the more important one—the Bac—wasn’t for another four! What did he need to be worrying about his _note scolaire_ for?

 _Maybe she was just trying to scare me into being good_ , he thought hopefully. But he didn’t really believe it. The concern in Madame Bustier’s eyes had been too real to be part of a scheme or trick.

Should he bother telling his parents about this? His mom would probably freak out and lecture him about the importance of the Brevet, and he knew his dad would give him the Disappointed face. He imagined his father telling him in his quiet, rumbly voice, “This isn’t how a Dupain should act, _chère_.” Shame coursed through him just thinking about it.

 _This is that girl’s fault!_ he thought, a stab of anger distracting him from his parents. If she hadn’t ratted him out, he never would’ve gotten that stupid lecture, and he wouldn’t be worrying about the stupid Brevet!

“ _Incazzato_ ,” he muttered, stuffing his hands into his pockets. This day was just getting worse and worse.

He took a deep breath and smoothed his hair back, trying to shake his dark mood. Okay, so things weren’t exactly going his way. So what? He was still going to eat lunch with Nino—they’d be able to complain about Madame Bustier together, and Adrian would make some stupid comment that’d make Nino laugh, and then they’d start talking about something completely different. The whole morning would be completely forgotten.

When Adrian reached the cafeteria doors, he stopped to check that no one was looking, then took a deep breath and forced himself to grin. He’d read somewhere that smiling for 10 seconds gave you a burst of dopamine, which made you feel happier—which was exactly what he needed right now. As his grandma always said: A dollar in your hand might win one person, but a smile on your face will always win the crowd!

Bolstered, he reached out to pull open the cafeteria door. _Hit me with your best shot, world_ , he thought with a grin. _As of this moment, I’m unstoppable!_

The door banged opened from the other side, smacking him in the face.

“—so just forget it, man!” said a voice, and Roman Moretti stalked out of the cafeteria. He stopped short when he saw Adrian standing there, and for a second his face darkened. But then he put on a familiar smirk.

“Hey, it’s the Sunshine Sidekick himself!” he called over his shoulder. “Finally gracing us with his presence!”

“Roman! Hey!” said Adrian, rubbing his battered nose and trying to hide his irritation behind a smile. Roman! Of all the people to run into right now, it had to be Roman!

Roman grinned unpleasantly at Adrian—or rather, grinned up at him, as Roman was a good three inches shorter than Adrian, something no amount of swagger could disguise. “It’s about time you showed up, you ass. We were waiting forever!”

Adrian ignored the cuss word, his attention caught by the last sentence. Why would Roman and his crew be waiting for _him?_

The door swung open, and the rest of the Band Kids—Danielle, Diane, and Julika—piled out of the cafeteria. They stopped abruptly when they saw Adrian standing there.

“Hey, Adrian!” said Julika with a friendly smile, waving at him. Adrian waved back, feeling some of his annoyance disappear. Julika was the only Band Kid who he actually thought of as a friend, and it was mostly because she actually went out of her way to be nice.

“Hey, guys!” he said cheerfully. He’d been caught off guard, but the routine came easily to him: Be nice, be friendly, and above all, be dense! “You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve been having! First I’m late, then the teacher got on my back after some girl turned me in— Anyway, where are you guys going?”

“Why don’t you wait for Nino to tell you?” said Roman with a smirk.

Before Adrian could process this, the door opened, and Nino stepped out of the cafeteria.

“Nino!” said Adrian in relief. Finally, he could get away from Roman and the other _idiota_! “Man, am I glad to see you!”

“Not as glad as I am, dude,” said Nino, fist-bumping him. “Where’ve you been?”

“Getting chewed out by Madame Bustier,” said Adrian. He wanted to tell Nino everything that Madame Bustier had said, right down to how nervous he was about the whole thing, but of course Roman had to interrupt.

“Bummer you got caught by that bimbo,” he said, grinning that crooked little grin. “Nino was just telling us about it. They oughta call her Madame _Bust_ -ier, ‘cause that’s all she has going for her!”

The other Band Kids laughed. Adrian didn’t.

“Hey, be nice!” he said to Roman, smiling like he was kidding. But he wasn’t. He might not be happy with Madame Bustier right now, but he knew she wouldn’t appreciate being insulted behind her back.

He looked over at Nino, who just shrugged. Clearly he didn’t want to get involved with it.

“Oh, was I not being nice?” said Roman, rolling his eyes. “Sorry, I forgot how _sensitive_ you are, Sunshine. Geez, you’re such a square!”

 _I’m not a square_ , thought Adrian, tugging his ear nervously. _I break the rules. I wear an earring!_

“C’mon, Romaniac, Adrian’s no square!” said Nino defensively. ( _Thank you, Nino_ , thought Adrian gratefully.) “You should’ve seen him when he took care of the teacher after being late! And when I was an ass about it afterward, he straight up called me a son of a bitch!”

Roman said, “That’s because you are a son of a bitch!” and they all laughed, even Nino. Adrian laughed too this time, even as his stomach twisted. He already regretted that stupid insult. He’d only said it to impress Nino, but even though it had worked, it wasn’t fair and he knew it. He was actually planning on apologizing to Nino about it, but he couldn’t now—not when the Band Kids were there, and not when Nino had just used it to bail him out. He also couldn’t tell Roman off for insulting Nino with it, either, because that’d just _prove_ he was a square!

He decided the best strategy was to just keep his mouth shut.

“Listen, we’d better get going or we won’t have any time to eat,” said Julika, pushing a strand of green-streaked hair out of her face. Her comment brought Adrian sharply back to the issue at hand.

“Hey, you guys didn’t mention where you were going,” he said, trying to sound as casual as Julika. He grinned at Nino—his idiot grin. “Roman said you’d tell me, Nino.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Nino, shooting Roman a glare.

Roman smirked. “Look, _you_ wanted to wait, so _you_ get to tell him.”

Adrian was beginning to get a bad feeling about this. He wanted to grab Nino by the shoulders and shake him until he spilled everything. No, he wanted to shake it out of _Roman_. But all he could do was stand there and grin his idiot grin, like a…

Well, like an idiot.

“Look, it’s not a big deal,” Nino told him. “I met up with the Band Kids while I was waiting for you, and they decided to come to La Lotus with us. That’s not too much, is it?”

Adrian swallowed. Well, yeah, it _was_ too much. Students needed a lunch pass to leave the school building for lunch, which his mother had refused to sign. Without written consent from his parents, Adrian couldn’t leave the school. And if he couldn’t leave the school—

“I…can’t go, Nino,” he said quietly.

“Yes, you can,” said Nino in exasperation. He’d misunderstood. “Look, I get it, you wanted it to be just us, but it won’t kill you to let them come this one time!”

“No, I _can’t!_ ” said Adrian, throwing his hands up in frustration. “My mom wouldn’t sign my lunch pass! She thought it was too far away from school—can you believe it?” Well, that was partly true.

Nino frowned, his brow furrowing. Suddenly it occurred to Adrian that Nino might be angry at _him_. He hadn’t thought about it before, but what if Nino was mad at him for not being able to go? What if he blamed Adrian for it?

A wave of panic washed over Adrian, and before Nino could say a word, he launched into a spiel of excuses, desperate to explain himself.

“Listen, I’m really sorry this happened! I tried to convince Mom it was okay—I really did!—but you know how stubborn she gets when she thinks she’s right! So I was going to tell you before, but then the whole thing with Madame Bustier and that girl happened, and when I came to tell you now, well—” He gestured helplessly to the Band Kids. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Julika give a guilty start, but the others weren’t as empathetic.

“Not our fault, Sunshine,” said Danielle, tossing her wavy red hair over her shoulder. Diane nodded enthusiastically, Danielle’s lapdog through and through. As for Roman, his face immediately twisted into a scowl.

“You’re not even coming?” he said angrily. “You’ve gotta be kidding!”

 _Shut up, Roman_ , thought Adrian. He just wanted to see how Nino would react. They’d been planning this for the past two weeks—it was going to be the first time they ate lunch outside of school. And now the whole thing was off, and it was because of him.

For a minute, Nino just stood there. Adrian fiddled nervously with his earring, waiting for Nino to say something, _anything_. Was he angry? Did he think it was Adrian’s fault?

Then Nino straightened his spine, and Adrian knew he was disappointed, because he always did that when he was disappointed. It was his way of squaring his shoulders and meeting the thing head-on. He braced himself for whatever punishment was about to come.

“That’s alright,” said Nino, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You’ll wear her down eventually, right?”

Adrian actually laughed in relief. Nino wasn’t mad! Well, of course Nino wasn’t mad. He was Adrian’s best friend. He wouldn’t get all bent out of shape for something small like this!

“I can’t believe we were waiting around all this time for nothing!” Roman grumbled. “Thanks a lot, Sunshine. You’ve _really_ made my day!”

“I’m really sorry, guys,” said Adrian, putting on his best guilt-riddled voice. Like he was actually sorry Roman had been inconvenienced. Frankly, the fact that Roman was so annoyed made _his_ day!

And if Roman still ended up having a great afternoon—whatever! It didn’t matter what happened to that _stronzino_! Now that Nino knew the plans were changed, they could go back to the cafeteria and get lunch like it was any other day at school. Adrian was itching to spill the whole day to Nino—telling it as a funny story, laughing about the absurdity of it all when it was over. He was already beginning to mentally map out how he’d phrase it. _Madame Bustier raised her eyebrow like this, and I thought she was going to lose it in her hair before it came back down!_

“We’d better get going if we want to get ahead of the noon rush,” said Diane, speaking for the first time. “Come on, Nino, we’ve got to go.”

And just like that, the bubble popped.

“Wait a minute,” said Adrian. Nino wasn’t going. Nino was staying here, because Adrian couldn’t go to La Lotus without a lunch pass, and they always ate lunch together.

But when he looked at Nino, Nino was staring at the cafeteria doors. It was his _occhi di muro_ —the stare he only used when he was avoiding something.

But what was he avoiding?

“Nino? Are you going with them?” said Adrian, and it took all his willpower to keep his voice light and curious. He couldn’t act all desperate—not in front of these people, not in front of Roman. Never in front of Roman. But Nino—

“Of course he’s going with us,” said Roman. “We invited him, didn’t we?”

“But I thought—it’s just, we were going to eat lunch together.” Adrian was struggling with his composure. _Porca misera!_ Curse his easily flustered genes! “That was sort of the whole point of going, you know?” He let out a nervous laugh.

“Well, it’s your own fault for not getting here on time,” said Danielle, putting her hands on her hips. “We’d already made plans to go out when you showed up.”

 _I made plans with him_ before _that!_ Adrian wanted to scream, but he couldn’t say anything. Suddenly it was like his whole body was frozen.

“Sorry, man, but we’ve got to go,” said Roman, turning to leave. “C’mon, Nino—I’ve got a new tune I want your opinion on. I don’t think the keyboard lines up right with the drums.”

“Oh, yeah, and do you think you could swing by my dad’s place tomorrow? There’s a bunch of his old CDs in the basement that I thought you could use for your DJ gigs,” said Julika.

They dragged him away by the arm, chattering about band stuff. Nino kept looking between them, nodding and saying things Adrian couldn’t hear. He was almost at the door by the time he briefly looked over his shoulder, just once, at Adrian.

And what did Adrian do?

He just stood there and grinned.

He hated himself.

 _Why did I let them do that?_ Adrian agonized as he scanned the room for an empty table. Why hadn’t he stood up to them? He’d had a chance to say something—to stop them—and all he did was fall back on his safety net like a coward. Spineless! That’s what he was. Completely and totally spineless!

Adrian sighed. Well, now what? Nino was the only person Adrian regularly sat with—he was his anchor in the sea of laughing, arguing students. Sometimes they’d find a table with other kids at it, but always with each other, and he couldn’t do that now. Sure, the kids would let him and Nino sit with them, but what if they wouldn’t let Adrian sit there when he was by himself? What if Nino was the real person they liked, and they didn’t want Adrian there without him? It didn’t seem worth the risk to find out.

 _Maybe I’ll just eat on the floor_ , he thought moodily, then cheered up a bit when he pictured himself lying on his stomach and munching on steak and apple slices while he watched the world go past him. The _cantinières_ would have a heart attack!

At this rate, though, it looked like he _would_ have to sit on the floor. There were virtually no empty tables, and he’d rather eat rocks than become the awkward idiot who sat at someone else’s table and tried to force himself into the conversation.

He perked up when a flash of red hair caught his eye, and he saw Alya at a table near the canteen. Alya might let him sit with her. She and Nino had some sort of unspoken rivalry going on between them, but Adrian liked how she was funny, outspoken, and unapologetically confident she was no matter what she did. Heck, maybe she’d even want to complain about Madame Bustier with him!

He made a beeline for her, but it wasn’t until he was a mere five feet away that he saw the other people at her table: Mr. Scribbles, the quiet red-haired kid who always sat in the back, and next to him—

Adrian stopped short, groaning. Of _course_ it was the girl from the hallway.

The pixie drill sergeant (as he had decided to call her) was listening to Alya with a serious expression on her face. Adrian was sure that at any moment she would turn to look at him with those big green eyes and say something about that morning. But she was focused on Alya and didn’t so much as glance his way.

Someone bumped into Adrian, knocking him hard enough to stumble a few steps forward—just enough to catch the girls’ conversation.

“—so bored with my life!” Alya was saying. “I need something to do! A focus point! I can’t just keep wiling my days away, staring at my belly button and waiting for the next picture on the calendar! I don’t want to survive, guys! I want to live!”

“You’re being melodramatic,” said the pixie drill sergeant, resting her chin in her hand.

“I, Mari, am being sensational,” said Alya with a toss of her head.

So the pixie’s name was Mari. Adrian filed that away for later, but he was still too upset to care. There was no way he could sit with Alya now, not when that stupid girl was there! How much more was she going to ruin today?

Adrian took a deep breath and forced himself to turn away. Okay. Okay! This wasn’t turning out to be such a great day, but he couldn’t drag himself down with anger and resentment. He just focus on the task at hand, which was finding a—

A flash of orange flew past him. Adrian froze. Orange…the orange coat hangs on the man as he hurls himself off the bridge. It flutters gently in the wind as he falls…he falls…he _falls_ …

Adrian inhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut. _It’s not the man’s coat_ , he tells himself. _It’s just a girl’s shirt. It’s just a girl’s shirt_. Just a shirt, Adrian, just a stupid shirt. The Italian word for shirt is _camicia_. The Italian word for orange was…he’d have to ask his grandmother that. He knew the word for pink— _rosa_. And the word for green was _verde_.

Suddenly the cafeteria seemed too loud. There was too much noise, too many voices, and it all rang in his ears like a bomb had just gone off.

 _Forget it_ , he thought suddenly. _I can’t do this_. Not right here, not today. Not without Nino to talk him out of what was in his head.

He could still go, couldn’t he? He could catch up with Nino and the Band Kids before they got too far from the school. So he didn’t have a pass—so what? Was it that hard to sneak out? Who really cared about all that stupid stuff, anyway? People lived and people died every single day—no one had any business asking about lunch passes when life was going on outside, no right at all!

Before he could stop and think about it, Adrian turned and walked purposefully toward the cafeteria doors. The _cantinières_ were supposed to keep watch so that no students left the cafeteria without permission, but they were busy serving lunch, and he’d learned a long time ago that you could go just about anywhere if you were confident about it. _Di luce stellar!_ People could be real dense if they weren’t paying attention!

Sure enough, he slipped through the doors without any trouble at all. He walked briskly to the front of the school and threw the entrance doors open, breathing in the crisp autumn air as it smacked him in the face. Instantly, everything that had happened that morning was forgotten—all that existed was him and the feeling of pure, beautiful freedom.

Adrian took a running leap and jumped over the whole stairs, landing with a bone-shaking _thwump_ that was incredibly satisfying. He turned and began running down the sidewalk, resolving not to think about anything but his destination. There was more to today than his failures! He would not write off the day just yet! All that mattered was that the sky was blue, the air was clear, and he was going to eat lunch with Nino, Band Kids be—

“Going somewhere?” said a cold voice.

Adrian stopped dead in his tracks. Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.

 _Oh, please,_ he prayed as he turned around, _please don’t be who I think it is. Please—of all the people in the world—don’t be_ her!

But it was.

Mari!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My original plan was to post chapters once every two weeks, since I had a backlog of chapters I was already working on. However, school has started again, and I've had less time than I anticipated to work on my fics; thus, I have now decided to shoot for a monthly schedule instead of bi-monthly, or a month and a half at the latest.
> 
> For clarification: The actual French school system _does_ allow students to leave the building for lunch, usually for an hour and a half, but it does _not_ require lunch passes to do so. I invented that for the narrative. However, this IS an alternate universe, so I feel justified in taking liberties with what goes on in France and what doesn't. I bet you didn't notice, but the info Adrian gives on the Pont des Arts in Chapter 3 also has some "alternate facts" (and I can use that phrase because it's true!). I actually have a bunch of notes on what's different in the AU world compared to the canon ML one, which I'll be peppering in over the course of the series.
> 
> Sadly, the next chapter will _still_ be character focused more than anything, but I'm planning an important action scene right after. Stay tuned!


	6. Avant La Tempête

Mari was partial to blue eyes. Nath had blue eyes, as did Nathalie. Her father had had blue eyes, too—something she knew from his wedding photo, the only picture of him in the house. In her experience, blue eyes belonged to kind people. Safe people. The kind of people who couldn’t hurt you if they tried.  
  
Unfortunately, she thought as she stared into Dupain’s bright blue eyes, she was now looking straight at the exception.  
  
After seeing him walk out the door the way he did, she’d gotten suspicious and followed him. Students weren’t allowed to leave the cafeteria without a lunch pass—Nath had told her so when he was prepping her for school yesterday evening. And yet Dupain had walked out the door like it was his duty and his right, not stopping to alert anyone he was going or flash a lunch pass to the _cantinières_. What sort of thing was he up to that the rules didn’t apply to him?  
  
Well, here it was: Dupain was trying to leave the school without permission. What an irresponsible twit.  
  
As Dupain turned to face her, she expected his expression to be comedically panicked, realizing that he was caught red-handed. But to her surprise, he seemed more irritated than alarmed.  
  
“You’ve gotta be kidding!” he groaned, slinging his bag angrily over his shoulder. “No, really, you have _got_ to be kidding. How many times is this going to happen today? You running into me, me running into you—I mean, why are you even _out_ here right now?”  
  
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” said Mari, clasping her hands behind her back. “You left the cafeteria without showing the ladies your lunch pass. You and I both know that’s breaking a serious rule.”  
  
Dupain flushed, turning a lovely crimson pink that set off his eyes beautifully. Mari was struck with the image of him in deep royal purple—a jacket, perhaps, with black pants to round out the color palette and plum-purple socks as a balancer. Maybe gloves, if they weren’t too old-fashioned…black leather gloves, yes. Black or brown shoes to complete the mix. And if the purple was too much, she could also dress him in some light greens—  
  
_Snap out of it!_ she told herself sternly, banished the swirling images from her mind. Now was not the time for daydreaming!  
  
“What are you doing here, Monsieur?” she said, more sharply than she’d intended.  
  
Dupain stared at her, his eyes wide and considering—trying to figure out an escape plan, no doubt. She stared back, refusing to look away. _Belles étoiles_ , she hoped he wasn’t about to bolt. If he made a run for it, she wouldn’t chase him; that was his choice, and it would only get him in more trouble. However, he would undoubtedly be able to go do whatever it was that he wanted, and if he was punished after he came back, he might write the whole thing off as “worth it” and do it again.  
  
For a moment, she really thought he would run. But then his calculating expression disappeared, and he reached up to fiddle with his earring as he gave her what she now realized was his signature guilty-yet-charming grin.  
  
He was going to stay and fight.  
  
“Okay, okay, you caught me,” he said sheepishly. “Guess I wasn’t as sneaky as I thought, huh? Sorry for snapping at you—I’ve just had a bad day. And yeah, I know it looks bad, but if you’ll just hear me out, I can explain this whole thing, I promise!”  
  
Mari resisted the urge to roll her eyes. So he thought he could talk his way out of this—as if she were his weak-willed teacher or doting mother! Clearly he had been in this sort of situation many times, playing his bit piece, wheedling with his victim, even using the same word-for-word argument for all she knew. If she was going to turn him in, however, she ought to have undeniable proof that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be.  
  
“Monsieur, just answer the question: Are you supposed to be out here?” As she spoke, she reached up to tighten her bun, annoyed that it was beginning to come loose. Better to get this over as quickly as possible—Nath and Alya thought she was in the bathroom, and they would be wondering where she was soon.  
  
Dupain held up his hands. “Listen, this is all just a big misunderstanding! See, I _had_ my pass, signed and ready to be stuffed in my pocket—” He pretended to wave around an invisible piece of paper. “—but just as I was on my way out the door, my dog grabbed it out of my hands—” he let the pretend slip go and put up a show of disbelief. “—and then took off running! So I had to chase her all the way around the house—” He mimed running, huffing and puffing like he was out of breath. “—but when I finally caught her, you know what happened? She ate it! Seriously! Just chowed down, and it was gone in seconds! Can you believe it?”  
  
“So you’re saying it’s your dog’s fault,” said Mari, hoping she sounded as unconvinced as she felt. _Belles étoiles_ , that ridiculous dog again! This layabout really needed more excuses. “What is your dog’s name, Monsieur?” she added, hoping to make him falter as he thought up a name.  
  
“Cagna,” said Dupain without missing a beat. “Cagna Chiennelle Dupain. I got her at an animal shelter in the 16th arrondissement two years ago.”  
  
_Cagna?_ thought Mari. _He named his dog_ Cagna? The Italian word for dog? How staggeringly uncreative. And who on earth went to animal shelters in the 16th arrondissement? The whole story was clearly made up to get him out of trouble. And if it wasn’t true, then not only was he outside without permission, but he was boldly lying about it.  
  
_Let’s see how Dupain takes to not getting his way,_ she thought. _Not even his oozy little grin can save him if he did something as serious as leaving the school without permission._  
  
Mari pulled her phone out of her skirt pocket and snapped a picture of Dupain. As he blinked away the flash from his eyes, she checked the photo. There was Dupain, standing with the trees and blue sky displayed clearly behind him. There. All she had to do was show this to the school’s authorities, and there would be no way he could deny what he had done.  
  
Satisfied, Mari looked up just in time to see Dupain, finally recovered from the flash, staring at her with a puzzled expression. The expression made him look so childlike that she felt an unexpected pang of guilt for what she was doing. Oh, he deserved what was coming to him, but…well, she just wished his eyes weren’t so _blue._  
  
“Monsieur Dupain, you are a horrible liar,” she said shortly, trying to recover. “I’m afraid that you aren’t going to get away with this particular stunt. If you don’t have a lunch pass—and as you just said, you don’t—then I’m going to have to tell the teacher. And once I show her this photo,” she added, holding up her phone, “you won’t be able to smooth-talk your way out of it.”  
  
Mari waited only long enough to see the stunned look on his face before she turned and marched toward the doors, trying to think where she could find Madame Bustier. It didn’t exactly please her to report Dupain, but if he insisted on breaking the rules, then she had no choice. He would simply have to face the consequences of his actions.  
  
“Wait, wait!” called Dupain, chasing after her. He jumped in front of her, and she stopped short, irritated.  
  
“Monsieur Dupain—” she began, but Dupain cut her off.  
  
“Listen, we can sort this out without the teachers, right?” he said anxiously. “We don’t need to drag them into it, right? It’s just a stupid little misunderstanding! I mean, something so itty-bitty as leaving without a lunch pass? C’mon! There’s no need to call in the cavalry over something that small!” He grinned at her, looking so charming that Mari felt her heart beat faster, which only made her angrier.  
  
“Wrong, Monsieur,” she said curtly. “This is _exactly_ why we need to call in the cavalry. The fact that you’re so desperate to avoid punishment means you badly need some. Get out of my way.”  
  
Dupain began fiddling with his earring again, his grin becoming nervous. “Look, I get it, this looks bad, but I _really_ can’t get in trouble right now. Couldn’t you please—”  
  
“You should have thought of that before you broke the rules,” she said, side-stepping him and continuing toward the door. If he honestly thought she was going to cave now, just because he’d asked politely, he was even stupider than she’d initially pegged him.  
  
“Wait, stop!” he called desperately, and she imagined him standing pitifully at the bottom of the stairs. “Please, Mari, let’s just talk about this! Mari!”  
  
Mari froze, her arm outstretched halfway to the door handle. Mari? Had he just called her Mari? How on earth did he know her name?  
  
But the moment the surprise wore off, anger began bubbling inside her. _Please, Mari_ indeed! How _dare_ he call her that so casually? As if they were best buddies, two compadres just having a little spat! He hadn’t earned it. He hadn’t earned anything. He was just manipulating her to get what he wanted!  
  
Whirling around, Mari got right up into Dupain’s surprised face. The fact that she had to stand on her tiptoes to do so only made her angrier.  
  
“Let me make this perfectly clear,” she said icily, poking him in the chest for emphasis. “My name is _Marina_. (Poke) “Marina Marietta Agreste. Only my _friends_ (poke) know me as Mari. You, Monsieur, do not have the _right_ (poke) to be my _friend_.” (Poke) You will address me as _Marina_ (poke) or not at all, is that clear? And I have no interest in your half-witted _excuses_.” (Poke) “You broke a rule, and you are going to be _punished_ (poke) for it. Is that clear enough, _Adrian?_ ”  
  
Dupain was staring at her, his mouth opened slightly. He looked like a fish that had just been tossed from the lake onto dry ground. Then he snapped his mouth shut, shook his head, and glared right back.  
  
“Yeah, well—” He seemed to struggle for words for a moment, and Mari nearly rolled her eyes. Why was she even bothering with this inarticulate clown? He couldn’t even defend himself when he needed to!  
  
“Well,” said Adrian finally, “if I have to call you by your full name, then you have to call me by _my_ full name! Adrian Thomas Dupain!”  
  
“Very well, Adrian Thomas,” said Mari, and turning smartly on her heels, she reached out for the door handle. She heard Adrian move toward her, still spitting out excuses, and she gritted her teeth to stop from screaming at him. Enough was enough! He had to learn that there were consequences to these sorts of things!  
  
She turned the handle with a click.  
  
BOOM!  
  
An explosion rocked the earth. The ground shook so violently that even Mari, standing on concrete steps, had to grip the door handle just to keep herself steady. Whirling around, she was horrified to see thick red smoke billowing up over the trees of the Place des Vosges. The air filled with screams, and from the park came unintelligible shouting.  
  
_Belles étoiles!_ Mari thought, feeling sick. Surely that wasn’t a bomb—?  
  
The ground shook again, this time a little less violently. Dupain staggered, caught off-balance.  
  
“What _is_ that?” he said, aghast.  
  
Mari glanced at him, still stunned. Dupain’s gaze was fixed on the smoke, and all she could see of him was his wild blond hair, still windswept from his brief run outside. In the span of five seconds, Dupain and his antics had suddenly become the least of her worries.  
  
The thought of Dupain was what snapped her out of it. What was she doing? Now was not the time for freezing up! There was a crisis on hand!  
  
“Hey!” she shouted, and Dupain jumped. “Go inside and get help! Tell a teacher, call the police—something!”  
  
Without waiting for his response, she took a running leap and flew over of the stairs—perhaps the first time in her life that her ballet training was useful. As soon as she hit the ground, she was running.  
  
“Wait! Where are you going?” Dupain shouted after her.  
  
Mari stopped and looked over her shoulder.  
  
“I don’t know,” she shouted back. “But _someone_ has to help.”  
  
Without waiting for a response, she took off for the park.  
  



	7. Un Jeu Commence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry this is late. My computer broke down right before Christmas break, and when I finally got it fixed at the _end_ of Christmas break, I realized that this was the hardest chapter I've had to write so far. Me being the perfectionist that I am, I couldn't leave it alone and kind of obsessed over getting it right. I'm not even that proud of it—I really wanted to get the nuance of Emilie and Nooroo down, but honestly, I've toiled over it for a couple months and it's not getting any better, so just go ahead and take it as it is so I can move on with the story.

Less than half an hour before the park was in chaos, Émilie Agreste stood in her designing room, fingering the little purple brooch pinned to her breast.

Strange things were happening in this big, lonely mansion. A fine lilac mist had spread itself across the property, weaving its way through the rooms like a snake and leaving everything in its path a light, filmy violet. Émilie could see it. She could see her whole house being draped gently in purple, covering everything, enveloping everything, filling her senses with the light, lovely color of a butterfly’s wings. The voices were silent, fearful and wary of this mist, and for that, Émilie loved it. Very few things could shut out her voices nowadays, and she appreciated it as if it were a living being.

Right now, however, Émilie wasn’t paying attention to the lavender haze surrounding her. She was staring into a round black-rimmed mirror, lost in thought.

“Of course,” she said to herself, staring at her reflection without seeing it. “Of course. It all makes sense, when you put all the pieces together. And if that were the truth—”

She frowned at her twin in the mirror. That was the trouble, of course. _If_ it was the truth. If this strange little creature was lying, or if she’d misunderstood, then everything was for naught and none of this mattered anyway.

Well, there was only one way to find out. She whirled around, her eyes searching for the little body that she knew was behind her.

“Is that the truth, Nooroo?” she said, proud that only a touch of desperation bled into her voice. Even after all these years, she was calm under pressure. “Can you guarantee that it’s the honest, unadulterated truth?”

Nooroo was floating behind her, restless and twitchy. He was purple, as purple as the mist that covered the house, and would have blended right into the background if he weren’t flitting back and forth like a mayfly, rubbing his fingerless hands together nervously.

“The truth?” he said, his voice high and distracted. “Oh, yes! The truth! It’s the truth. All of it. There’s nothing but truth. Telling the truth is a form of rebirth. Did you know that? Did you know that truth is a form of rebirth?”

“Yes, of course,” said Émilie, though she had no idea what he was talking about. “And raising someone from a coma? Would that also be rebirth?”

“Would it?” said Nooroo thoughtfully. “Would it be rebirth? Yes! Yes, I think it would! Why do you ask?”

Émile watched him flitting around the room, stirring up the purple mist with every turn in the air, as she tried to collect her thoughts. There was so much new information to process. Kwamis. Miraculouses. Guardians. And of course her husband. Her darling, wonderful, idiotic husband.

It was ridiculous how little of this she knew. How on earth could Gabe have kept this from her? For years, he’d used a Miraculous without telling her. _Years_. And when he’d fallen into a coma, how was she supposed to know that the usual methods wouldn’t cure him? How could she have possibly guessed that his condition had been caused by magic? She’d watched over him for over a decade, praying the man she knew and loved would wake up, and now she discovered that she didn’t know much about him, after all.

Of all the secrets to keep! she thought despairingly. I’m going to kill him when he wakes up!

Then she smiled, her anger instantly becoming giddy elation, because secrets or not, this could be it—this might be the day Gabriel finally woke up! After years of pain and loneliness, his beautiful gray eyes would open and her suffering would be over! How could she be angry about that?

Émilie took a deep breath, trying to control herself. She was sure that her emotions were flashing across her face—Gabe had once told her she was like an open book when her guard was down, and if there was ever a time she felt unguarded, it was now—so she was careful to keep it neutral. It wouldn’t do to play all her cards immediately. That wasn’t the Agreste way. And besides, she didn’t need some magical imp knowing what she was thinking.

“Nooroo,” she said finally, pronouncing the strange name carefully as she tried to hide her excitement. “You said that there was a way to reverse the condition. What exactly do you need to do in order to reverse it?”

“Reverse?” said Nooroo distractedly. “Reverse what?”

“A magic-induced coma,” said Émilie, playing with the brooch anxiously. It was no longer burning now that Nooroo was out of it.

“I had a master who reversed his words,” said Nooroo, as if she hadn’t spoken. He zipped around in small circles, tugging at his hands. “I don’t know what he—palindromes! He said they were palindromes. Lovely, lovely palindromes. They’re like words that have been reborn—”

“That’s lovely,” said Émilie impatiently. “But what about the cure? How do you reverse the effects of a broken Miraculous?”

“And the master after him was a beautiful woman. Hélène, her name was—or was it Hà Liên? Ooh, I don’t know, but she liked cookies a lot. Cookies are all about transmission! Did you know that?”

“Nooroo—”

“Oh, I miss my Master. They were all nice Masters, except for one or two or three or four. They all transmissioned into not-alive Masters—what’s the word for not-alive? I can’t remember. Did you know that learning new words is all about reb—”

With lightning fast reflexes, Émilie’s arm shot out and smacked Nooroo. The blow sent him spinning through the air, squealing in surprise. He pulled himself up short and looked at her for the first time. His eyes, filmy and lilac, were wide with fear.

Émilie’s hands were trembling from anger. Her fury was back, now a deep and passionate rage that was spilling over her heart and into her entire body. In the back of her head, she knew that this wasn’t how an Agreste should act, but _dammit_ , she couldn’t believe this stupid little ant! How dare he keep her waiting with his silly little games! Didn’t he know her entire life was on the line? Everything she wanted—everything she _needed_ —it was all at her fingertips, and this stupid little pest wanted to chitter on about Masters and rebirth and _cookies!_

 _Kill him!_ said Âne Émi savagely, breaking the voices’ silence with her shrieks. _Pound him! Stuff him in the garbage disposal! Make him pay! Make him pay!_

 _Émilie! How could you do that?_ said Petite Émi in shock.

 _See? See?_ said Émi Sensée, not bothering to hide her smugness. _This is exactly what I’m talking about! This Miraculous business is dangerous and bad for your mental health. Put it away and forget it existed!_

 _Are you crazy?_ shouted Émi Agressif. _After all the pain we’ve been through these past thirteen years, you want to throw away your chance to erase it?_

 _It’s all right, little one,_ murmured Émi Calme. Shhhhh, _it’s all right. Calm down, my love, calm down. You’re perfectly all right…_

Shut up, she told them all, just shut up! She didn’t need her voices on top of everything else. Thirteen years of insanity, and they were still yelling and crying and arguing and _talking!_

She realized she was breathing heavily, and she took a deep breath to steady herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw herself in the mirror. She looked awful—her hair was falling out of her bun and into her face, her dull green eyes wild with anger. The sight shocked her enough to gain control, and she kept her eyes on the mirror, unable to tear her eyes away from her reflection.

Hot shame shot through her as she stared into the mirror —shame of losing control, shame of smacking Nooroo, shame of becoming this sad and pathetic old woman who couldn’t handle a little sprite’s mad ramblings. She used to deal with arrogant directors and egocentric actors, cruel critics and fussy clients. Was she now reduced to this? Just some bitchy middle-aged woman with nothing and no one to turn to? Gabriel would be ashamed of her. She was ashamed of herself. She should just crawl back into bed, pull up the covers, and forget this whole thing ever—

 _No._ Émi Sensée’s voice was firm and commanding. _No falling back into your guilt this time. You might be wrong, this might be dangerous, but come on—you’re Émilie Agreste, woman! Scourge of the fashion world! Now pull yourself together and make the right decision!_

 _Come on, honey,_ said Petite Émi coaxingly. _You can do this. All you’ve gotta do is stay calm and keep your head on straight._

Émilie sighed, knowing that for once her voices were right. She had to stay calm, and she had to stay focused. She took another deep breath, letting it fill her body, and willed her anger to recede.

“Master?” said a timid voice.

Émilie jumped. She had completely forgotten that Nooroo was there. She looked around and saw that he was hiding on the other side of the room, trembling so profusely that it looked as if the mist around him was vibrating. Watching his small body shake, Émilie felt a stab of guilt. It wasn’t Nooroo’s fault he was like this, any more than it was her fault she was such a mess. 

“Nooroo,” she said softly, walking toward him. Nooroo whimpered and shrunk back. “Nooroo, I’m sorry for hurting you. I didn’t mean to—I was just frustrated. But I still shouldn’t have done it. Can you forgive me?”

Nooroo watched her warily, his glazed purple eyes wide with fear. Feeling guiltier by the second, Émilie slowly reached out her outstretched hand, inviting Nooroo to sit on it. He pulled back, rubbing his hands together nervously.

“No,” he said. “No, no, no. Something’s wrong with me. I can’t forgive. I just forget. Only I don’t forget my Masters or fruit or the Rules—but everything else, I forget. I don’t forgive! I can’t forgive you until I forget!”

 _He’s crazy,_ said Émi Âne in disgust.

 _Crazy is as crazy does,_ said Émi Rêveur cryptically.

 _He’s not crazy, he’s just odd,_ said Émi Sensée sternly. _And I think the real question is, what now?_

Émilie sighed. “Nooroo, _mon miteau_ , I can’t say I’m sorry again. Don’t forgive me if that’s what you want, but will you please answer my questions?”

Nooroo’s face lit up, and he darted closer.

“Questions? You want me to answer questions?” he said excitedly. “I love answering questions! What questions do you have to question me about? Ooh, Master, please ask me your questions!”

“First, let’s get something straight,” said Émilie, unnerved by his sudden mood swing but deciding to use it to her favor. “I’m a mistress, not a master. If you insist on calling me that, I’d rather you get my gender right. Second, I only have one question right now, _mon miteau_ —”

She bent over, clasping her hands as she looked directly into Nooroo’s eyes.

“You said there was a way to cure someone who’s been hurt by a broken Miraculous,” she told him. “What is it?”

Nooroo stopped and stared at her in surprise.

“Has someone been hurt?” he said blankly.

“Yes, Nooroo,” said Émilie quietly. “Someone very important has been hurt. We need to fix him. Is it a potion? Some sort of magic spell?”

Nooroo laughed, a strange jerky noise that didn’t sound particularly happy. “Oh, no, nothing like that! Well, yes, it’s a magic spell—a very bad magic spell! But there isn’t any potion involved! I promise!”

“Get to the point, please,” said Émilie.

“You only need two items!” Nooroo burst out triumphantly, looking proud of himself for having that knowledge.

Excitement gripped Émilie. “What? What two items?”

“A pair of earrings!” he said happily. When Émilie blinked at him, he added, “and a ring.”

There was a beat of silence.

 _As I said, he’s insane,_ Émi Âne said finally, even more disgust in her tone than before.

 _Grill him before you make assumptions,_ snapped Émi Sensée, who seemed to have completely forgotten her previous objections. _There has to be more to it than that. There’s always something more to these sort of things. What sort of earrings and ring do we need?_

 _Did you notice that when he moves, the purple mist swirls?_ said Émi Rêveur dreamily. _I could make a dress out of that._

“Just any old earrings?” Émilie asked Nooroo, ignoring her voices. “Any old ring? That will bring him back?”

“Oh, no no no!” exclaimed Nooroo. “They have to be the special earrings and a special ring! You see, they’re both Miraculouses! You need to put them together and make a wish.”

“A wish?”

“Mm-hm!” Nooroo’s arm went wild, moving around so fast that Émilie almost couldn’t see them, demonstrating what you were supposed to do. “You put them together, you make a wish, you wait for the universe to grant it, and then your person is well again! It’s easy!”

Suddenly he paled, his lavender face turning a whole shade lighter.

“Wait, that didn’t feel right,” he muttered to himself, rubbing his hands faster and faster. “What did I do wrong? Did I do something wrong, Master? Am I being reborn? Ooh, I feel sick—sick and hurt and—and not good! What’s wrong with me, Master? I think something is wrong with— Punish me!” he shrieked suddenly. His purple eyes bulged, becoming wild and unfocused. “I’ve made a mistake! I must be punished! Punish me, Master! PUNISH ME!”

Émilie stared at the little kwami, stunned. In the span of three seconds, he’d gone from an eager little pet to a raving lunatic. She almost reached out to slap him to see if that brought him to his senses, but given the circumstances, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

“Punish you?” she said perplexedly. “Of course I’m not going to punish you. You’ve done nothing wrong!”

Nooroo stared at her with wild eyes, hovering unsteadily in front of her face. It looked as though he was struggling with his impulses, fighting off some invisible darkness in his head. As if he was using all his strength and willpower not to freak out and have a meltdown right then and there.

Émilie felt herself soften. That, at least, she could understand.

“It’s all in your head, Nooroo,” she told him, her voice gentle but firm. “This sense of wrongness, this need to be punished—it’s not real. You’re just imagining it. Okay? You’re perfectly fine, so don’t give in. Things will only get worse if you give in to your darkness.”

Nooroo stared at her in shock, as if the fact that she'd spoken to him in his madness was an unthinkable act. Then his milky purple eyes lit up, and he looked at her with such desperation it was almost pathetic.

“In my head?" he gasped. "All in my head? None of my Masters have ever told me that before. But—but how do you know that, Master? How do you know?”

“Just trust me, I know.” Because that was her life—hiding in her work, never letting anyone get close to her because she was a nervous wreck just waiting to happen, and forever running from the voices in her head. She knew more than anyone what happened when you let the darkness run free. It ate you alive if you didn’t fight back, swallowing you up in its big black jaws and never letting you go again.

But it was exhausting, fighting off her darkness all the time. There were so many days when she wished Gabriel were still there, that his steady gaze would pull her back from that deep, starving void. And if she got this right, then Gabriel would be back, and she would never have to go back into the darkness ever again.

The thought reminded her of what she was doing, and she got back on track.

“If you’re ready, Nooroo, let’s keep moving.” Nooroo nodded hesitantly, still looking shell-shocked, and Émilie continued. “Which Miraculouses would I need to make the wish?”

Nooroo immediately stiffened. “Oh, I shouldn’t tell you—I really shouldn’t!”

“Please?” said Émilie softly. “For your Master?”

Nooroo paused, his entire body vibrating from the effort to stay still. After half a minute of consideration, he nodded and began rubbing his hands together furiously.

“It’s the Ladybug and Cat Miraculouses,” he said, then suddenly giggled without humor for no reason.

Time stopped. The sound of Nooroo’s giggling dimmed, replaced by a roaring in her ears that may have been her heartbeat. Émilie froze, her body becoming as still as a statue as she processed his answer. Maybe Nooroo said something else, she didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t have listened anyway.

_The Cat Miraculous…_

In her mind’s eye, she saw a black leather-clad hand reaching out to her, helping her up after a little black butterfly had tried to consume her. On one slender finger was a jet-black ring.

_And the Ladybug Miraculous…_

A red back spotted with black dots turned on her, leaving her in her funeral garb as the rest of the city rejoiced. Under the long, tangled mess of blue hair flashed an earring—just as red and black and traitorous as the rest of its holder.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Oh, really.”

Inside her head, the voices were going haywire.

 _That settles it!_ yelled Émi Sensée. _We’re not encouraging this idea any longer!_

 _Are you kidding?_ exclaimed Émi Agressif. _A way to save your husband_ and _steal that bitch’s Miraculous? I’m even more on board with this than before!_

 _This is our chance to track her down and kill her!_ snarled Émi Âne. _Her and her stupid boyfriend, that leather-skinned piece of—_

 _We can’t kill Chat Noir!_ said Petite Émi in shock. _Are you all insane? Don't you remember what he meant to you? If this Miraculous is encouraging you to hurt him, then let’s toss it in the river and pretend it never existed!_

 _Absolutely not!_ yelled Émi Agressif. _You’re not turning your back on it that easily! This is_ Gabe _we’re talking about! Gabriel and Mari and you, one big happy family again! Don’t you want that, little one? Don’t you?_

Émilie took a deep, steadying breath and forced the voices to shut up. As much as she wanted to sit and absorb this information—or throw something, whichever was easiest—there would be time to deal with all that later. For now, she had to focus.

“That’s interesting,” she told Nooroo, forcing a smile. “I actually know about those two Miraculouses. In fact, I’m well acquainted with them.” She paused, picking her next words carefully.

“If I need those Miraculouses to make the wish,” she said finally, “then I have to go get them, don’t I? So where I can find them?”

Nooroo made a little noise that sounded like a squeak and shook his head.

“Well, what about Ladybug and Chat Noir?” said Émilie. “Can you tell me where to find _them?_ ”

“Oh, no, Master, I can’t!” burst out Nooroo. “And if you try to make me, I’ll spit bubbles in your face. There’s no way for me to reveal the identities of the Guardian or the other Miraculous holders or my Master! Not to you and not to anyone! I can’t even tell the Guardian who you are!” He began flipping through the air. “Also, I can’t tell you because I don’t know!”

Émilie sighed wearily and massaged her forehead with the palm of her hand. This was all so perfectly inconvenient. She was so close to getting her husband back, so _close_ to fixing her entire life, and here she was being thwarted by the very magic that ought to be helping her! 

“Master?” said Nooroo anxiously, abruptly stopping his flipping.

 _This fast start-and-stop thing of his is giving me a headache,_ said Émi Agressif with a groan. _Make him stop. Please._

Émilie shook her head. “No, it’s all right, Nooroo. This isn’t your fault. I’m just a little overwhelmed, that’s all.”

Overwhelmed, and frustrated, and angry. Just a few more emotions to throw into the stew, burning and boiling up inside of her.

 _You can’t give up yet! You’re too close to the answer!_ roared Émi Agressif. _If you give up now, you’re a coward! COW-ARD!_

 _Oh, shut up, you old hag,_ muttered Émi Âne. _You’re not our cheerleader. We can handle our own mistakes, thank you very much._

 _I wish everyone would stop fighting,_ said Petite Émi with a sigh.

Émilie turned to look at the mirror. Her own green eyes stared back at her, unfocused and lined with deep creases. Her bun was coming loose again, and stray strands of golden hair were falling in her face. She took a moment to fix her bun, but her heart wasn’t in it. Not that it mattered. No one could see her, and after all that she had learned, she couldn’t care less about her appearance. She hadn’t really cared in over a decade.

She knew that she needed to start formulating a plan, figuring out the next step forward, but her thoughts kept drifting back to Ladybug and Chat Noir. Though she hadn’t seen their faces in years, she could still see them in her mind’s eye as if they were right in front of her: young and vigorous, their eyes shining with the gleam of heroic triumph. So she really had to take their Miraculouses to get what she wanted. Well, wasn’t that ironic.

They’d always been the perfect team—there was no Ladybug without Chat Noir, no Chat Noir without Ladybug. They were dutiful little heroes, showing up to thwart Le Papillon— _no, don't think about him—_ and his little black butterflies wherever they turned up. Despite no one knowing who they were or where they came from, somehow they always managed to get there just in time and save the day. They were the perfect team, the Deux de Paris. So perfect it was sickening.

Émilie sighed and reached up to brush a stray hair out of her face. Her hand was halfway up to her forehead when she paused.

_Wherever they turned up...._

When the butterflies came out, thought Émilie with dawning realization, the heroes would arrive. All the reporters knew it. So did the team’s fans. And Le Papillon knew it, too. Of course he did.

And now so did she.

In her mind, a plan began to form, almost against her will. The Moth Miraculous was a magnet for trouble. It had once attracted Ladybug and Chat Noir, and if she used it, it would surely attract them again. Yes, it hadn’t exactly ended well for the Moth Miraculous’s original user, but she wasn’t going to fall into the same trap that he did—she only needed one thing, and if she played her cards right, she would be able to get it after just one use.

“Nooroo,” said Émilie, glancing to the corner of the mirror where Nooroo’s reflection hovered anxiously. “Can anybody use the Moth Miraculous? There’s no blood bond or soul-selling involved?”

“N-no, of course not,” spluttered Nooroo. He almost looked offended. “It’s just a transmission. You’re transmissioning into the butterfly or moth. I don’t like moths or butterflies. Did you know that purple is a form of rebirth?”

Émilie smiled indulgently at him, but didn’t respond. So there was no trick involved. Le Papillon, unlike his civilian counterpart, had been sloppy; she would do much better. Unable to stand still, she turned to the mirror one last time, noting with satisfaction that she looked much more confident than she had just a few moments ago.

The snake of purple mist was languishing around her, slithering through the air and settling its body on everything but her. She shone brightly in the mirror through the tones of violet and lavender, a bright spot of black and white in the sea of purples. As before, it silenced all her voices…all her voices, that is, except one.

 _The mist isn’t like a snake,_ said Émi Rêveur sleepily. _Snakes don’t move like that. Snakes slither; the mist creeps. If anything, it’s like a caterpillar._

A caterpillar, thought Émilie. Yes, a caterpillar. A sweet, fuzzy little worm that will soon burst out of its cocoon.

It should have made her hesitate, made her stop and take a second look at what she was about to do. But she was tired, she was angry, she was lonely, and she knew that this wasn’t a time to be thinking straight, because otherwise she would never go through with it. So she took a deep breath—her third one this morning—and composed her face into a mask of tranquility. An Agreste, after all, always presented herself as the pillar of perfection.

“This could work out for me, Nooroo,” said Émilie, touching the brooch on her chest. In the mirror, her twin’s green eyes began to gleam. “I haven’t been out of the house in a while. I could use some exercise.” She saw Nooroo staring at her in surprise, and she laughed. “Oh, don’t worry—I have a plan for you. We don’t know where they are, right?”

Nooroo nodded rapidly, nearly tipping over from the momentum.

“Well, if we can’t go to them, then we’ll just have to make them come to us.”

 _I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t like it,_ said Émi Sensée uneasily.

 _Finally, we're going into action!_ said Émi Agressif.

 _Shouldn’t we think about this?_ said Petite Émi timidly.

But Émilie wasn’t listening anymore. She had already moved on, accepting that this was her role to play. She could see it clearly in her head: the next move was so obvious, the round ready to be started. Well, she would win it. She would win this round—this game—for Gabriel.

She would win it for herself.

“Get ready, Nooroo,” she said. “The game is about to begin.”

And under her pale fingers, the Moth Miraculous burned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, I'm not proud of this chapter. I was going for madness + unhealthy mental states, but I think Emilie and Nooroo just come off as a mess of mood swings. I'll try to give them more in-depth chapters later on, but right now, I just want to lay out the basics of their characters and throw in some foreshadowing.
> 
> Also, I wanted to keep Gabriel's condition a secret for at least ten more chapters, but it didn't work out that way. Oh, well. There'll be more secrets to layer out, anyway. The fic is young yet.


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